


love it if we made it

by clementinetea



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-22 20:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clementinetea/pseuds/clementinetea
Summary: They are here now, the two of them, and so Felix lets himself sink further into his pillow and reach out a hand to smooth back stray strands of scarlet hair from Sylvain’s forehead, to tenderly ghost his knuckles over the side of his face and along his jaw.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 262





	love it if we made it

**Author's Note:**

> so i just finished crimson flower & i'd recruited both sylvain and felix & honestly i think it was a rather good choice since defecting makes sense for both of them as characters... but at the same time i felt horrible guilty for making them so miserable so. here's an entire fic of post-canon domestic romance to make up for that! also their paired ending outside of blue lions is quite sad and to that i say: fuck you, they're married
> 
> also thank u to my love on [@minuted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minuted/pseuds/minuted) for betaing, ily very much for reading this over even though u don't go here at all 💖
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Felix fucking _loves_ sleeping in his bed.

It isn’t really the sleeping he particularly cares for. It’s just something he has to do to stay alive, nothing more and nothing less—he certainly isn’t Linhardt. He goes to sleep at a decent time, when he isn’t out training with his men well into the early morning, or sorting through the endless stream of letters he receives from the capital and writing back blunt, succinct replies. He wakes at a decent time too, usually just as the rising sun starts to stain the solemn sky a brilliant orange and reach out tentative tendrils of warm light to dance across the snow-capped peaks of the mountains of Fraldarius territory. It gives him just enough time to go outside for a run or the briefest of training sessions before the day properly starts.

So no, Felix doesn’t care much for sleep, one way or another. 

It’s the bed he likes.

Felix isn’t one to luxuriate, usually. Isn’t one to seek out comfort or to make his life easier for himself just for the sake of it. But after years of war, years of sleeping in thin canvas tents soaked through with the chill of winter, years of sleeping on the unforgiving ground upon worn bedrolls, years of sleeping in cramped cots and under threadbare sheets and even in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the Cardinals’ Room at Garreg Mach after war councils that dragged on too long…well. Felix thinks he’s allowed to luxuriate just a little bit.

His bed at Fraldarius Manor is wide and soft and covered in pillows stuffed with goose down. There's an elaborately embroidered comforter—courtesy of Mercedes—thrown across the expanse of it and an elaborately knit blanket—courtesy of Bernadetta—laid out at the foot of it. Its headboard is made of polished black wood, and the mattress, an import from Sreng, is the plushest he’s ever felt. It’s the sort of bed one can fling themselves against and positively sink into.

But best of all: his bed has Sylvain in it. This is something that never ceases to amaze Felix as he blinks awake each morning.

Here is Felix, in bed, and here is Sylvain, lying right next to him, his long body a comfortable line of heat against Felix’s side, one well-muscled arm thrown across Felix’s waist, holding him fast and close. Here is Sylvain with his eyes closed and his mouth parted ever so slightly and his breaths coming slow and soft, and here are the three moles scattered along the expanse of his pale throat and the silvery little scar he’d gotten on his top lip from sparring with Glenn when they were still children and here are his eyelashes, long and pretty as a girl’s.

Most mornings, Felix is up and out the door at first light. Some mornings, though, Felix lets himself open his eyes and just watch his husband a bit. Marvel over the fact that they are alive, and doing well, and _married_.

He didn’t ever really think he’d even make it to twenty-seven, much less be twenty-seven and married to the man he loves. The man he’s loved for as long as he can remember. The man he’d promised to live together and die together with, back when they were both children who hadn’t understood the sheer gravity of such a promise, hadn’t grasped the binding power of it, hadn’t yet known how it would be one of the few things to keep either of them going during the darkest days of the bloody war.

Felix doesn’t believe in destiny or fate or anything like that, but if he thinks about it long and hard, it almost seems like, unbeknownst to themselves, they’d been careening toward this—toward each other—all along. He can’t really find it in himself to feel upset about the lack of autonomy he’d had in the matter when things are so impossibly, ludicrously good. Perhaps his younger self would have. He’d been so angry then, snarling and sneering and snappish all the time. It exhausts him a bit to imagine being that way now, barreling through life with nothing but his sword at his side and a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. It exhausts him a bit to imagine life without having Sylvain—all of him—the way he does now.

But they are here now, the two of them, and so Felix lets himself sink further into his pillow and reach out a hand to smooth back stray strands of scarlet hair from Sylvain’s forehead, to tenderly ghost his knuckles over the side of his face and along his jaw.

Sylvain’s eyes flutter open after a bit, his hazel eyes bleary but fond—always so _fucking_ fond—even through the daze of sleep.

Felix smiles at him softly, and feels his heart skip a beat when his husband turns his head ever so slightly and presses a kiss to the calloused, scarred skin of Felix’s palm, warm and deliberate.

“Good morning,” Felix murmurs.

“Morning,” Sylvain echoes, his voice low and gravelly. Heat twinges pleasantly at the pit of Felix's stomach.

Sylvain’s arm tightens around Felix’s waist, pulling him closer so their bodies are no longer bracketing each other like a pair of cupped hands, but pressed together so Felix can feel the warmth radiating from his husband’s body, can tangle their legs together, can let himself bask in the feeling of Sylvain’s hand at his hip, burning through his cotton shirt and marking Felix as his.

He dips his head to the junction of Sylvain’s shoulder and neck and presses his lips there in a not-quite kiss.

“Feeling lazy today?” Sylvain says, his voice teasing and soft as honey in warm milk. “Usually you’re out the door before dawn. I think someone’s getting old.”

Felix doesn’t deign to answer Sylvain and elects to mouth at his neck instead. Sylvain hums in satisfaction, a pleased, breathy noise, tilting his head ever so slightly for easier access.

“You’re one to talk about getting old,” Felix says against Sylvain’s pale skin, and nips at it for good measure. “You’re almost thirty.”

“God-_dess_, that’s bizarre,” Sylvain says, slipping the hand at Felix’s hip under his shirt and skimming his long fingers up and down Felix’s spine, coaxing goosebumps from Felix’s sleep-warmed skin. “Thirty.”

That’ll make Sylvain older than either of their brothers had gotten to be, Felix realizes, and his stomach twists sickly. Glenn had been cut down well before his prime, years and years ago, and Miklan had died by his own brother’s hand back in their academy days. Both of them are younger siblings; they aren’t supposed to be older than their brothers. It’s fucked up to even think about, and when Sylvain’s hand stills at the small of Felix’s back, Felix knows the same thing has just dawned on him.

But the sun is rising, and they’re in bed together, and Felix has never been one to let himself drown in the tragedy of the past, to let himself dwell on things he can’t change, to let himself _ spiral_. He rolls over so Sylvain is on his back and Felix is braced over him, knees digging into the mattress on both sides of his husband’s hips. Sylvain’s expression, well on its way to being pained, softens back into contentment.

And then, closing the gap between them, Felix leans down and kisses Sylvain. How insurmountable that gap had seemed just a few years ago, when they’d first started fumbling their clumsy way through intimacy and affection in the face of the brutal violence of the war; how easily it comes to them now!

It’s a sweet kiss, loving and chaste, and Felix’s heart aches with the tenderness of it, at the deliberate press of Sylvain’s mouth to his, at the gentleness with which Sylvain cradles his face, like he is something precious. It’s a strange feeling to him still—being wanted like this, being cherished for something other than his skill on the battlefield or his familial relations, being _loved _—but Sylvain makes it simple to temper his sharpness and be swept along.

His hair is loose, not yet pulled into his usual ponytail or plait, and Sylvain slides his hand from Felix’s cheek to run his fingers through the sleek black curtain it forms around them as they kiss. The tug of it at his scalp is pleasant, and he melts against Sylvain, kissing him harder, chasing the soft warmth of him. Then Sylvain tilts his head and parts his mouth and curls his tongue into Felix’s mouth, easy as anything, and Felix can do nothing but shudder atop him and let himself be kissed dizzy.

When they pull away to breathe, panting hard, Sylvain smiles up at him, his freckled cheeks flushed bright red. Felix’s heart flutters jubilantly and he smiles back like a lovesick fool, aware that he isn’t any better off.

“We should get up,” he says finally, though he is draped comfortably against Sylvain and the familiar solidity of his husband's body is close to putting him back to sleep and the bed is so nice he's reluctant to come out from under the comforter. But there is, after all, a household to run, letters to answer, horses to tend to, soldiers to command, rehabilitation efforts to carry out. The sun, fully risen, glows golden through the linen curtains still pulled across the window, and Felix can hear the bustling of the estate's staff downstairs in the courtyard and in the hallway outside their room.

“Nah,” Sylvain says, his eyes still crinkled with smile-lines, his hair a scarlet mess against the pillow, his lips glossy from kissing. “Five more minutes.”

And, well. When their bed is _so_ comfortable and when Sylvain is _so_ warm and real and beautiful next to him, Felix thinks that maybe he can spare an extra five more minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! 💓 feedback is always immensely appreciated
> 
> u can also find me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/gingercitrustea) or read my other femblem fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightroom/works?fandom_id=23985107)!


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